Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(95)

Nate takes her hand. ‘I’ve explained this to them, darling, they just don’t want to listen. Perhaps we should call Felix?’

No guesses for who Felix is.

Parnell powers on and I don’t blame him. ‘Perhaps we should .?.?.’ isn’t the same as ‘I demand to see .?.?.’ but we’ve probably got a matter of minutes at most.

‘Mr and Mrs Hicks, a murdered woman, who you’ – a point to Gina – ‘have at least admitted knowing, is pictured many years ago in a flat that you now just happen to own. Now I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know what you’re lying about but I know you’re lying. A woman is dead and she’s continually being linked to your King’s Cross flat.’

‘Did you hear what my wife said? We didn’t buy the property until .?.?.’

I’m sick of the sound of his voice. I don’t know how Gina sticks it. ‘From who?’ I say, sharply. ‘Who did you buy the flat from? And it will only take us ten minutes to find out so do yourselves a favour .?.?.’

‘From me.’

A voice from the doorway. Frail but commanding.

The grandad.

He of the Santa beard and stage four cancer.

‘Well, Gina didn’t buy it from me, of course. I transferred it over to her.’ A quick chuckle. ‘I got it off Lenny Spoons in the Seventies, if you’re interested. Didn’t buy it, I won it in a poker bet. They were good times, back then. Lawless.’

Gina jumps up, moves towards him, arms outstretched. ‘Dad .?.?. please .?.?. don’t .?.?. we’ve got this .?.?. don’t say anything else.’

Parnell stands up, astounded, mouth gaping like a fish. I glance from one to the other, waiting to be put in the picture, but they just eyeball each other, locked in their own private reunion. There’s a hint of a grin on Parnell’s face. ‘Mr Mackie, it’s been a very long time,’ he says eventually. ‘Did the craving for a decent cup of tea finally get to you? Or is it the weather that tempted you back?’

The old man laughs. ‘Tell you the truth, it’s that copper sense of humour I missed the most. The Cuerpo Nacional de Policía take themselves far too seriously. Bit of a mouthful, ain’t it? La Pasma tends to do. Means “the cops”, “the pigs”, y’know?’

Parnell turns to Gina Hicks whose face is the colour of glue. ‘OK, I think it’s time we swapped places, people. You all need to come to our place and our guys need to move into yours. Oh, and Mr Hicks.’ Nate Hicks has his head in his hands but at the sound of his name, he looks up. ‘I’m arresting you both for assisting an offender, and quite possibly for perverting the course of justice, so I think you might be right – perhaps it is time you called Felix.’



It turns out Felix Whiteley is a bit more partial to a New Year knees-up than Nate and Gina Hicks and when they do finally get hold of him, two hours later, he’s already halfway to the New Forest where he and his good lady wife are attending a seven-course dinner and a ‘Masquerade Ball’.

Whatever that may be.

Of course, he agrees to turn round and come charging back up the M3, however with warnings of a jack-knifed lorry just before Basingstoke, he really can’t say what time he’ll be able to join our little NYE soiree, which leaves the Hickses contemplating life in a holding cell and Patrick Mackie with the police surgeon. Word is, he’ll be deemed fit to be detained as long as he’s kept under regular observation.

Steele’s appeal for information on Saskia’s whereabouts went out a short while ago. I’m not sure how many people actually watch the six o’clock news on New Year’s Eve – most people have started the final blow-out by then, I suspect – but we’ve all agreed to stay in the office on stand-by, manning the phones and ready to leap into action if required.

Someone’s ordered in pizza but for once I don’t feel hungry. Parnell’s in his element though, regaling the team over slices of deep-pan Hawaiian.

‘Patrick Mackie. Quite the face when I was a wet-behind-the-ears-bobby.’

Ben can’t help himself, grabbing a clutch of fake snow from the base of the Christmas tree and sticking it in front of his chin. ‘Here, Boss, do you recognise me in this cunning disguise?’

To be fair, Parnell takes it in good humour. It’s not every day you overlook one of the UK’s Most Wanted because they were dressed like Father Christmas.

‘In my defence,’ he says, ‘Mackie answered the door once and I saw him for all of two seconds and as you’ve pointed out, I could hardly see his face. Them pair’ – a point towards me and Emily – ‘had a whole bloody conversation with him.’

‘We’ve never heard of him though,’ Emily protests. ‘We can’t be expected to recognise every criminal who’s ever existed since the Second World War!’

I smile but I’m too drained to enter the fray. And I know Parnell’s only messing.

‘Second World War! Cheeky mare,’ he says, smiling. ‘Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, Patrick Mackie was definitely something of a big-shot back in the day. Made his name in the Seventies but really came into his own in the Eighties and kept going until around 2007. Drug trafficking, protection rackets, prostitution, security fraud, you name it. There were rumours he was involved in people trafficking too – maybe not actually running the show, but putting the money up. Same with a number of big-league armed robberies.’